


The Tin Boy

by ingenuousPerjurer (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark Humor, Dean Does Not Have A Panty Kink, Demons, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Murder, Panty Raid, Slow Build, Vampires, Witchcraft, Witches, Y'all Just Asking To Be Kinkshamed, light gore, murders, seriously what the fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:04:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ingenuousPerjurer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago, Benjamin G. Braeden didn't like killing things. He couldn't shoot a gun, but he did like playing baseball. The scariest thing out there was his mom when he was late for dinner.<br/>But three years ago, Benjamin G. Braeden didn't know monsters were real. He didn't know a demon tried to kill him when he was 11, or that he was replaced by a changeling when he was eight.<br/>Nowadays, he shoots like he can't run out of bullets. The last time he touched a baseball bat was when it was completely iron, and he sure as hell wasn't hitting balls. His favorite food is 'the beef-flavored microwave meal.'<br/>On the loneliest of nights, when the nostalgia kicks in, he talks to an angel.<br/>And sometimes-just sometimes-he finds his way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tin Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first case was pretty awful. Like, very awful.

_Tuesday, March 28th, 2020_

_9:45 (now 9:46) AM_

_Stockton, CA_

_Split up from Dean and Sam last week. They said I should keep a journal, so I can remember what to do as I start off._

_Or Sam did, anyway._

_Dean's not talking to me._

_Sam even set me up with a case. Taught me how to research. Made a list of possible suspects. Showed me how to choose hotels - they gotta have free wifi, turns out, and they like em under 70$. We found Motel 6. Hit both points. He gave me a fake card so I could buy a car and like, ten fake IDs. The one I'm using here is Tyler Swift. Subtle. Real subtle._

_The news site clipping (the one printed + pasted at the bottom) reports isolated murders, starting last month. The corpses are found with two puncture wounds in dumpsters around town. Pretty obvious, right? Even I was like 'yeah, it's vampires.' And then I was on my way to fight Edward Cullen, I guess._

_I spent last Sunday to yesterday driving in my new 2004 Volkswagen Golf (which the Winchester-Castiels seriously disapproved of.)_

_Yeah._

_It's a fucking mom car._

_But y'know what? It's big, it smells like pine, and I got in sleek, sleek red, so it's cool. No Impala, but it's cool, and it has incredible mileage on it. Gotta love the mom van!_

_Other than that, today is exploration. Gonna put on my brand new suit, tie my brand new tie, and go be a fed. Mom would be so proud of me._

 

I sighed, closing the journal with a snap and dropping it in the nightstand. My first suspect was the youngest brother to the most recent victim. She was a local bartender, twenty-two, went by the name of Katrina Holiday. The cops didn't have anything more than that, except that she'd worked the late shift the night she was murdered. Pretty girl, too, with ginger curls and pale skin.

Although, the paleness could've come from her lack of blood.

And her being dead.

Yeah.

I pulled on the black silk suit, fiddling with a red pinstripe tie. It was pretty classy, I thought, but it seemed average attire for this kind of job. I guess feds _are_ pretty classy, I mean. Look at the guys in Men In Black. Pretty snazzy fellows.

My chariot (van) waited patiently in the parking lot, morning dew still coating her hood. Her engine purr sounded like freedom as I pulled out of the parking lot, zooming down the street towards 2224 Rosemary Lane. The work traffic had already started to clutter up the streets, commuters honking viciously at red lights and people who couldn't use their blinker causing all sorts of shit. Office workers, it turns out, are fucking brutal drivers.

Still, I arrived at Venetian Bridges at 10:08 sharp, clutching an address in my hand. Apartment A8.

The secretary in the lobby was more than happy to page me up, giving me a little speech on how sad it was about the poor girl and how she so very hoped I would figure out what killed her, and oh, aren't I a little young to be FBI? I must have worked so hard!  
She had no idea, but whatever. Innocent old ladies weren't really my biggest concern.

The godforsaken elevator that took me up, though? That was scarier than any monster. 

I survived, though, only to find some kid answering the door. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, with deep bags under his eyes and a mug of coffee clutched in his hand. I had expected someone older, someone who didn't look like they were supposed to be in B period Calculus. 

Still, I flipped my badge from my pocket, dipping my dead. "Good morning, Mr. Holiday. My name is Tyler Swift, I'm from the FBI."

He froze, blinking for a moment before stepping back. "..Oh. Oh, good morning, sir. Come right on in."

The man showed me to a round little dining table, cluttered with papers and bills. A couple dirty mugs were strewn about, dirty clothes thrown across furniture and the floor. "Excuse the mess, I've, uh. Been getting over some stuff."

"Your sister?" He sat, while I took a seat directly across from him. 

"Katrina. Yeah. You know about her?"

The younger Holiday looked almost scared, clutching the handle of his drunk with red-knuckled hands. His skin was a ghostly white, eyes bloodshot from what I assumed was crying. Hair as red as his sister flopped in front of icy blue irises that scanned me with cruel judgment. All in all, he looked like a little bitch. "That's why I'm here today. What's your name?" 

"John. John Holiday. I-god, I wondered how you knew my last name. The cops already came by. What do you want?"

I was warned that I'd get questions like that a lot. The easiest way to answer was to cut out the Supernatural bits and throw in a 'the board wants to know.' 

"Yeah, well, you know it's been a chain of murders, right? The board wants to see if we have a serial killer on our hands." 

It was scary, how easy the lie came. John looked like I'd slapped him in the face with it, no less, and that didn't exactly help my burning conscience. "A serial killer? Oh-oh, god. How can I help? What do you need to know? Please." 

Jesus Christ. At least he'd been cooperative. "Tell me about your sister. Any enemies, any people who had something against her?" The basic questions Sam had talked about were enemies, offenses, and if the vic had been acting weird lately. Seeing as it was just a bloodsucker, I didn't think to ask the last one. He'd also said, more often than not, it took a little prodding to get a real answer. Family especially thought the very best of their relatives after they died, and often sugarcoated everything. It was the bitter details that really mattered most--the things people don't like to say about the dead. That's what I wanted.

"No! No, nobody. She never hurt a soul. Hell, she had more friends than people I even know, working at the bar and all. Everyone knew her. Everyone liked her. I got so many condolences when she died, really, I can't even imagine that someone would be able to do the deed." One of his hands went to scratch his chin, teeth worrying at his lip. Tics. 

I was finding it creepy how natural all the information came, like I was programmed to do this stuff. That was bullshit, of course. Dean wasn't actually my dad--it was some biker dude--but lord, if I didn't know. "Riiight. She never did anything? No bar fights gone wrong, no high school drama?"

"Do you really think a serial killer would care? No. No fights. Ever. She was the Valedictorian. I don't think she even knew how to throw a punch." He scowled at me, tapping his foot on the tile.

"No, no, but when it's localized killings, sometimes it's someone with a.. list, and stuff. Someone with a problem."

He put his hands on top of his head, huffing. "Nobody had a _problem_ with her, okay? Seriously! Everybody loved her! I loved her!"

Fuck. I'd poked too hard. "Okay. Okay. What did she do when she wasn't at the bar?" John took a deep breath, analyzing me before putting his hands back on the table. I noticed how heavily the place smelt of Febreeze, an artificial sweetness in the air combated by his coffee.

"Odd jobs. She mowed lawns. Raked leaves. High schooler stuff, y'know? All the time. That was how she got 'pocket money.'" 

I nodded, unsure how to respond. Maybe the poor girl had just been unfortunate enough to get in the vampire's way. There didn't have to be a pattern. "Well. Thanks for your time, John. Have a nice week." 

"You too, Mr. Swift. Stay safe." 

With that, I left the apartment, Febreeze clinging to my clothes--only to run headfirst into a woman. 

We were both startled, her giving a shriek and stumbling backwards. " _Excuse_ me!"

Now, my mom didn't raise an asshole, so even though she'd decided to pierce my goddamn eardrums, I kept my cool. "Sorry, ma'am, I was just leaving."

"You better be! Ugh, _oaf_." She studied me harshly, clutching a plastic bag in her hands. Platinum blonde curls were kept tight in a bun, a tight-fitting dress clinging to her form and despite the spring warmth, a matching scarf tied around her neck like a noose. "Get out of the way, would you?" 

Although I had several reasons to break her nose, I merely nodded, stepping to the side and allowing her entrance. From inside, I heard John, sounding surprised and.. scared? "Angela?"

I didn't yet know the dangers of walking away in a situation like that. I wouldn't, really, for a long time. Instead of lingering like I would now, I just went back to my car. Went back to the motel. Started getting lost in research again.

* * *

 

_Saturday, April 1st, 2020_

_1:43 AM_

_Stockton, CA_

_Going insane. No leads on the killer.  New vic--Marie-Ann Worchester. Husband knew nothing. Smelled like weed. Everything smelled like weed. Was the same for the last two families._

_Gonna try and see if the cops know any local druggies, see if I can't put it together. It has to be a link. They all do drugs. They all have nice, innocent women close to them who get killed by a vamp. Vampire drug dealer? Who?? Who who who??? If one more person dies, I swear, I just have to go back to fucking Stanford, or something. Go home. Go back to mom._

_I miss my mom._

My entry from last night had only served to catalog the blatant drug use of the victim's families, which, all in all, did not help me that much. There weren't really vengeful gods who drained the blood of drug user's relatives, or that supported that shit. Closest thing was Artemis. Apparently she created vampires. Fine by me, but she didn't fit the job. 

So it had to be a vamp. 

I'd arranged a meeting with the local Chief of Police at a diner--Moo Moo's Burger Barn. A real charming place. 

When I arrived, she was already waiting outside, a tray of fries and a burger set in front of her while she sucked on a soda, glancing around. Upon seeing me, she lit right up, smiling. "Agent Swift! You made it. Jeez, I know I was early, but I was a little worried about you, hon." 

"Chief Rosberg. I got here safe, no worries." I seated myself next to her, giving a smile. "So, I really needed to ask about the dumpster girls case. Specifically a lead I have on it."

She brightened again. "Oh, do you? Please! Share." 

"All the victims' families are.. active drug users." Annnd she frowned. "Now, I don't want you to bust them just yet. I need to know if there's been any active drug dealers in the area, someone busted for possession, someone who slipped through the system. "

Chief Rosberg sighed, twisting her lips. "We had one. Eiiight years ago. Matthew Rahges--he and his daughter were busted. He was 68, sold drugs since he was 30. Confessed, went to state jail. His daughter was kept locally, as she only had possession. Girl was 24. She was in for four years, Matthew died in jail. You think she could be back in the business?" 

"Maybe." That didn't explain the bloodsucking, but it was a start. "What's her full name? Pictures?"

She shook her head. "I don't know if I have pictures. Full name Angela Rahges--last I saw her she was short. Platinum blonde hair, big brown eyes. Skinny as all hell, but a pretty girl." 

I nodded, patting her hands. "I think that could be it. I'm sorry to go, but thanks for the time, Chief. Maybe I'll see you around."  
She beamed again, standing to give me a hug. "Of course! If you need any back-up or anything, you call me right up, okay? Bring her straight to the station, of course, but I'm sure you have a partner or someone to help you out, huh?"

"Of course." I smiled back, adjusting my tie. "Bye now, miss..?"  
"It's Hailey. Stay in touch!"

* * *

 

Turned out Angela Rahges lived in the same town she'd been arrested in. A quick name search, and I had her pinned in a moment. The family manor she remained in was a big, brick place, located east downtown. 

Pulling up, it didn't look like that much. A big hedge hid most of it, a simple picket gate not suggesting much. Still, though, I pushed on, and to my surprise, there was a goddamn mansion tucked in there. Not just a manor. Nope. 

It was unlocked, to my surprise, although I could jump over easily enough. The cobblestone walk clicked beneath my shoe heels, invitingly leading to a modest porch and a plain white door.

I rapped against it once, only to have it thrown open in my face by the very woman I had crashed into at John's that Tuesday. She looked embarrassed, at first, like she'd expected someone who was not me.

"Good evening, Ms. Rahges. My name is Agent Tyler Swift," I said, showing my badge, "and I'm here about the recent murders."

This shocked her, like I'd just told her she'd murdered eight people and left them in dumpsters around town. Seeing as that's exactly what i had suggested..

Well.

I certainly couldn't hold her at fault.

An icy hand gripped my wrist, cold rings digging into my flesh as she dragged me through the door. It was sudden and brutal.

The door slammed behind me.  
Not even then did I realize I fucked up.

The house was ornately decorated, large paintings and decor lining the shelves and the hallway she was pulling me down. I didn't resist, not yet, as she was starting to speak.

"Murders? Why, I haven't a thing to do with the murders. I hardly know about the murders. Do sit, Agent Swift, I've just put on some coffee. Didn't I see you at John Holiday's place? Why, I think I did. Whatever were you doing at his house? His sister was murdered, was she not?" 

Her questions were rapid-fire, as if designed to throw me off. "I was at John Holiday's. Katrina was, in fact, murdered, and I suspect it has something to do with her brother's drug addiction. Your dad sold drugs, Angela. Would you know about that?"

"Everyone knows John's a stoner, Tyler-can I call you Tyler? I'm long out of the business. That was when I was so young. So foolish. You surely can't think I had anything to do with this?"

"No. I am Agent Swift. I do think you had something to do with this, Angela, and it's because I saw you at John's that day. Would you know anyone who dealt that stuff?"

"No! I know nothing!" Her tone was frantic, eyes wide with something I didn't suspect was innocence. She was too cold. New to lying, like me, but she didn't have a natural talent.

"Angela. What do you have to do with the deaths of-

That was where I made my biggest mistake. The thing about interrogations is that you have to know when to pull back. I didn't, not then, and if I had maybe Angela wouldn't have lunged across the table she'd seated me at, her mouth full of sharp and dangerous fangs. 

So yeah. That happened.

And then she knocked me out of her beautiful, ornate chair, onto her beautiful, ornate rug. That's when things got really hot. By that, I mean that's when she started asking the real questions. "What the fuck do you know?"  
When I didn't answer immediately, she slammed my head into the ground, her teeth sucking hungrily. "What the _fuck_ do you know?"

"Drugs! You sell drugs!" For the sake of my brain cells, I answered. "You're a murderer. Vampire. Vampiric, drug-dealing murderer. I got it. I know."

"Hunter," she hissed, and y'know? I know it hurts when people say other people's names during sex, but wow. That hurt even more. Probably because it meant I was about to die but wow! 

"Yeah, yeah, hunter." Behead her. I had to behead her. But to behead her, I had to have the use of my arms, which I did not. That meant I had to distract her.

Well, how do you distract a pretty, angry lady?  
You piss her off. "And you're an awful person."

"I am not!" A hand cracked against my cheek, Angela hissing. She had a looot of teeth. Like, a lot a lot. Imagine how long it'd take to put braces on those.

"Oh, and then what are you? Some nice chick who kills people for fun?"

"You don't _get it_!" 

I raised an eyebrow, keeping an eye on her fangs. "Then explain."

"They didn't pay me! They wouldn't _pay me_!"

"So you killed their loved ones?"

"They loved drugs more than them. They didn't value those girls, Tyler. They didn't!'

"And you killed them." Her grip was loosening, abyss-like brown eyes filling with tears. "You slaughtered them in cold blood, Angela."

"I set them _free!_ I've never _been_ free, Tyler _._ Do you know-do you even know? They turned me, in that jail. They turned me into this monster! First my dad, and then them. I will never be free! I will never die _!"_

She let go, pushing her fingers under her lashes to wipe away the dew gathering there. It was a moment too late she realized her mistake.

Luckily, that was the moment I threw her off, rolling. There was a knife in my pocket, a gun in the other-if I could shoot her in the head, maybe it'd surprise her enough to give me something, anything. 

I went for it, firing one round, then two. My aim was poor, but one went through her nose, the other skimming her ear.

Neither stopped her.

Okay.

Plan B! I started to run. Unfortunately, Angela followed, the two of us racing down her elegant hallway as I scanned for something that could--

There! A decorative sword, hung up on the wall. It was just within grasp if I had a _minute_ -

My fingers curled around the handle, just as all 150 pounds of girl slammed into me, bringing the sword down as I fell. She was on top once again, her hands shoved into my shoulders, claws digging through my jacket and into delicate skin. The sword was still in my hand, though, I just had to do something with it. I couldn't cut off her head, from my place, so all that was left to get her off. Take control. Be a _man._

What I did was throw my back up, arching my stomach and then tossing myself onto my side. It was enough to jostle her, fabric tearing as her claws tore my coat. I should've thought of it earlier.

Her fangs, however, were out, and she was ready to bite. I needed her head off. I needed her head off quickly, or I'd be dead. Maybe a vamp. Maybe worse.

I clutched the sword in one hand, but if I could just-

Yes. I used my other hand to grab her forehead, pushing back as I slammed my knees up, forcing them under her body and then extending my legs. Her hands were finally out of my jacket, and with one kick and roll, she was off.

I leapt to my feet, slashing directly at her as she charged towards me. It was sloppy, and crude, but the sword was sharp for something hung on a wall. 

And then she was dead.

Just.. dead.

I puked on her corpse, called the cops with a report that I'd found her dead, and got the hell out of town. The sword went with me. What else could I do? I'd just killed someone. 

Me.

Killed someone.

Nowadays, that's normal, but then it was.. scary. Super scary.

But that was my first hunt, so. It did go pretty bad. Nowadays, I would've handled it so much better, starting with not letting her drag me into her house. That was the first big mistake. You don't do that shit if you want to live. I was lucky she wasn't part of a den.

Anyway! My first hunt. Pretty impressive, right? I certainly thought so, once I got over the whole murder deal.


End file.
